Mametz Wood

Mametz Wood


The sky was flashing with the fireworks of war. The noise of the battering bombs caused the soldiers’ ears to constantly hum and the smoke made their eyes weep. The Western Front was a dying world and whenever the light was bright enough to cast shadows, no-mans land challenged the sanity of the men fighting.

The barbed wire tore at their skin. Those lucky enough to avoid the falling shrapnel were bemused by the heat and threw themselves to the ground, where their bodies were engulfed in mud and the remains of those before them.

It was early morning. The air was cold and the stars had not quite fallen into the horizon. Between the bombs, skylarks shuddered in what little undergrowth that remained undamaged and occasionally the trees would shake in the slight wind. There was a light mist where the 38th Welsh Division marched past unmarked-graves; just far enough away to not be involved in the main battle; their faces sunken and spirits low.

One young man fell flat on his stomach with his head pressed against the floor. It took a few moments before any of his comrades noticed. There was a fumbling of fear but none of the soldiers fell out of position. The officer in charge swung backwards. He seemed untroubled by the Private’s fall and pulled him up by the collar of his under-sized jacket.
‘Up you get, lad,’ he muttered hoarsely, ‘no sense in giving up now,’ he pushed him back into formation and the young soldier trudged on.

The private standing beside him gave him an encouraging smile. He couldn’t have been long out of school. His face was fresh, shaven and undamaged. He appeared to be well fed and his clothes hung off him loosely and were clean. Private Scott Williams had never been to war and his only experience with a gun was a fortnights training and trying to win the girl he loved a teddy bear in a shooting booth at his local fete.

He believed that they were the lucky ones. He could see the effects of the war around him but had been told that they had the advantage this time around. He had no fear for God was on his side and knew that the Germans would be greatly weakened by the current bombardment that was falling on their machine guns. After all, the allies outnumbered them three to one.

What everyone with experience had failed to tell Private Williams was that the Germans not only had visibility on their side but were also dug-in to the land around them. Williams took a minute to look around for himself, but failed to realise that all was not as restful as he thought.

He did however know they were getting close. The air was starting to smell more toxic and there was a thick sheet of smoke clouding his eyes. From somewhere near the front of the formation, a man began to sing. He recognised the song and it reminded him of home, as others began to echo the voice.

‘Not feeling patriotic, eh, Williams?’ the older soldier behind him stated, hoisting his rifle over his shoulder.

Without turning around, keeping his chin straight, he replied, ‘I can’t sing.’

The Private laughed. ‘And I thought you’d be a right little chorus boy,’ he joked.

‘I’m not that young. I’ve been out of school for a year now, Maddock’ he turned back slightly.

The older man snorted. ‘You’ll wish you were still there after this place has fucked you up a bit.’

Williams grimaced. James Maddock had just the previous night been reliving his battles from before Williams had even signed up. He had scars and a medal to prove his bravery. When he went home to recover the British army hadn’t wanted him back but he was determined to win the war for the Allies and had signed with the 38th Welsh Division, who snapped him up without a second thought. Williams wanted scars and a medal too.

The singing ceased and the marching came to a halt, causing Williams to stumble out of formation for a moment. There was no time for a proper rest and although he could hear instructions, only a few words were really sinking in. His blood began to pump furiously and as the noise of the bombs died, he could hear his own heartbeat pound aggressively. He knew that they were waiting for the smoke to clear and that in just a few minutes, he would make his first ever offensive on the Somme.

Williams couldn’t determine the difference between fear and excitement. His Division was at ease and he presumed that the others who were joining them were also waiting patiently for their time to come. He wondered whether the other men were feeling the same as he was. He knew he couldn’t ask them; they would laugh and swear at him as they generally did. Instead, he turned to the young Private who had fallen beside him.

‘I don’t think I know your name,’ he said, adding, ‘I’m Scott Williams.’

The soldier raised his head wearily for a moment to show that he realised he was being spoken to. ‘Richard Smithens,’ he offered his hand and Williams shook it politely, noting the fact that he could feel him trembling excessively.

Tension was mounting. ‘Nervous?’

‘Shitless.’

Williams looked at Richard and wondered whether he was staring at a mirror of himself. There was so much fear in Richard’s hazel eyes that they had become foggy. Williams almost believed that somebody had forgotten that they were there, before their Lieutenant took time to walk past them. A simple gesture of his hand and Williams knew that it was time to move.

‘Walk, don’t run. Get some fear into those bastards’ eyes. Show them that you’re not afraid,’ they were instructed.

A few moments later, Williams was crawling beside Richard within the turned up trees and amongst the freshly fallen ammunition. His clothes caught on spiked branches and his knees sunk into the soft earth. They were not alone. Others were alongside them; some hunched over—their rifles tight in their hands—many were staying as low to the ground as possible, through fear of being a snipers target and to evade falling shrapnel.

Metal began to whip past Williams’ left shoulder and he rolled to the right to move out of range. The silence was broken and the first shout of the battle caused Williams’ nerves to explode, as a man fell beside him, clutching onto his throat and gasping. Blood wept into his hands with an explosion of colour, as Williams attempted to calm the injured man.

He knew it was of no use. The man was drowning in his own blood. Williams wanted to do something to help him but had not the time nor skills, as he stared at the man whose face was now buried in the ground, obliviously. He felt himself pushed aside and a body crushed his back into the trunk of a fallen tree. He wailed in pain and tried to reach for his bayonet.

‘Are you fucking insane, Williams?’

Although fearful, the realisation that the person had spoken his name prevented him from feeling the speaker was a threat. He realised that he had allowed himself to become an open target, as Maddock pulled him to his feet. Williams noticed that a fresh fire of ammunition was falling onto the soldier who he had wanted to help. It was obvious to him that if it had not been for Maddock, he would probably be in the same situation as the now silent soldier. He realised that he had become separated from Richard and stared at Maddock in silent thanks.

Maddock’s face relaxed slightly. ‘They can’t be saved when they’re like that,’ he mumbled.

Williams nodded timidly and James Maddock disappeared into the trees without another word. The noise of war increased and the words of the men around him weakened. He could still hear orders being shouted but none seemed to be aimed towards him and were someway in the distance. Suddenly, he was alone with only his rifle for protection. Williams felt far from safe.

The flicker of an unfamiliar coloured coat caught his attention and he crouched behind the fallen tree, resting his rifle over the top. He looked behind himself briefly but nobody was around to offer him support. The man appeared to the front; he was just as young as Williams and was talking to himself in a language that he did not recognise. He was obviously afraid.
For a moment, Williams thought about hiding until he had passed. He remained silent but kept his hand on the trigger. Some debris fell nearby and startled the young German soldier who, in a fit of panic, began to shoot at random trees. Fearful for his life, Williams released the trigger and watched the German fall to the ground in a quiet death. He knew it had been a lucky shot and Williams suddenly hated himself.

He stared blankly at the body. His heart had somehow climbed into his throat and was causing it to feel as rough as the bark of the tree he clutched onto for support, stooping low. He knew that what he had done was a necessity for his own life. He knew that it was his job but at the same time, he knew that the German man was as human as he was. Despite the propaganda he had seen, this man was just a reflection of himself. Williams felt physically sick.

He was unable to move for a few minutes and felt his body shudder within his dirty uniform. He could hear the sounds of the war around him but was unable to register anything more than the slight pounding of blood inside of himself. A bomb falling close by alerted him back to reality and he looked at the blackened sky wearily.

Williams picked himself up from the ground and began to make his way in what he hoped was the right direction. He avoided walking past the man he had killed, so not to be close enough to see his face and continued to walk a few feet forward. Tripping over something that was too soft to be a tree, he stared downwards at yet another man who had been left for dead. There was still a weak noise coming from him and Williams bent down cautiously. Noticing the badge of his Division, he felt a new burst of energy as he pulled the Welshman over without hesitation.

‘Richard!’ he exclaimed quietly, feeling a bout of pain despite not knowing the man for more than an hour.

Richard Smithens groaned and clutched onto the calf of his leg. Examining his wound, Williams realised that if he were to be recovered in time, he would most likely survive—maybe lose the lower of his leg—but live.

He knew it would be no good to stand around and protect him. There was no guarantee that another soldier from their Division would pass them by. ‘I’ll be back—I’ll bring a medic. Don’t worry.’

Adrenalin made him rush forwards. He remembered the drunken night that he had signed up. The men had looked so smart in their uniforms and the women in his small town swooned over them. He had wanted that. Catching sight of someone wearing his crest, Williams called out to the man in front of him clumsily. Maddock turned around in surprise but luckily did not shoot.

‘Private Smithen’s is wounded—but it’s just his leg!’ he spoke in a rushed panic, ‘he just needs—’

Crack. Bang. Splat.

When Private Scott Williams had left the camp to make his first ever offensive on the Somme, it had never even occurred to him that it might be the only time that he was to fight in the Great War.

Williams fell forwards into James Maddock, who pushed him aside and rammed the offender with the bayonet on the end of his rifle. Williams watched as Maddock twisted the blade slightly to release the pressure and retrieve his weapon. The German soldier fell and Williams heard his neck crunch. There was no chance that he would retaliate.

Williams could now see everything more clearly than ever, as his head rested on the placid earth. He could smell the gunpowder on the air and wondered whether the stench would ever be cleansed from his senses. He could feel the metal disfigurement of the ground, as he unconsciously clawed around where he was now lying. Desperate for life, he searched the skies for a tint of silver or ray of gold.

Williams no longer had the strength to hold his neck up and tucked his knees into his chest. James Maddock seemed to watch him for a lifetime, before smiling sadly and vanishing from his sight. Left for dead, Williams managed to roll his neck to the side and could see that two stretcher-bearers were supporting Richard Smithens to safety. He smiled to himself
‘Mam…Mam…’

That was as much as Private Scott Williams ever made out about the event, as his mind sunk elsewhere and he remembered the pretty girls at his small hometown and how they would admire his battle scars.